


Needle in the Dark

by neoinean



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action/Adventure, Age of Sail, All OC Cast, Black and Gray Morality, Dubcon: Prostitution, Era/Setting-Specific Misogyny, Everyone is the hero of their own tale, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Non-Canonical Character Death, Pirates, Post-Hobbit/Pre-Lord of the Rings, Third Age, Villain Protagonist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-15
Updated: 2006-10-15
Packaged: 2018-01-09 01:57:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1140090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neoinean/pseuds/neoinean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One corsair fights for survival during the sack of Umbar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Needle in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the October 2006 Teitho Contest under a different pen name. It has since been revised.

  
_I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by_  
John Masefield, "Sea Fever"

 

_Spring, TA 2980_

The first semi-articulate thought to materialize in Kyranae’s all-too-heavy head was the realization that he was, in fact, awake. The second thought was a string of unintelligible curses aimed in the vague direction of the first thought, and the _third_ thought - well. Seeing as cursing the curses for not achieving their desired ends - that being the full and total banishment of his undesired wakefulness - sounded a bit ridiculous even for him, Kyranae focused instead on completely not thinking at all, especially since the very act of thinking set his head to pounding in an ungainly, offbeat rhythm that made his stomach roil about like a malevolent sea. 

Which meant, of course, that his _fourth_ thought was whether or not thinking about not thinking actually, technically, counted as a thought, a right bothersome little intellectual quagmire that did absolutely nothing for his head. Or at least nothing appreciative. 

Being fair, those exceedingly unhelpful thoughts weren’t exactly the sole contributors to his headache. Though the lamps had guttered low in their sconces they were still bright enough to stab vicious daggers through his eyes and into his brain, and nothing quite beat low tide in the port of Umbar for an unbreakable siege of the nose. On top of that, his mouth felt like he’d been sucking on a wad of raw cotton soaked in bilge water, and the pounding in his head may or may not have had anything to do with the dull reverberations that echoed strangely in his ears just often enough to catch his attention during lulls in the night's ambient noise. 

Ah, hangovers. In a way, they actually made landfall really almost bearable.

Well. More accurate to say it was the copious amounts of rum that sloshed through his veins a'foretime and so _birthed_ the hangovers that made such an undesired state almost bearable, for only then did ordinarily solid, steady land tilt and sway beneath his feet in its best approximation of the sea, and the land-loving idiots at port his captaincy demanded he deal with at least on occasion were far less likely to incite him to homicide - or worse, to mutiny against their incumbent Lord. Without rum no real stretch on land could be endured in any semblance of safety, his and the land-lovers both. 

Of course Kyranae would much rather be _avoiding_ land than enduring it, any day of the year and then twice on High Days, but as inconvenient as it was, land - or at least harbor-type land - was still the most necessary of all life’s evils, and avoiding said need remained an impossibility he had yet to conquer, so instead he aimed to pull into port as unobtrusively as possible, trade swag for provisions as swiftly as possible, and sail out again on the following tide before word had time to spread that he was even there at all. Until such time as when even the very _sight_ of land could be avoided indefinitely he needed a way to make peace with reality, and rum was his salvation of choice. The hangovers were simply the price he paid to retain his sanity during the important bits.

(Of course, the fact that his idea of making peace with reality was synonymous with actively fleeing from it did not seem to occur to him. And well it shouldn’t, for that way was sure to end in madness - and not the helpful kind, either.)

Once his boots met with the horribly immutable bedrock of a port-town - meaning the part of the town beyond the actual, physical port, which at least had courtesy enough to keep rhythm with the tides - the fancier negotiations of unloading and restocking were left up to his quartermaster (it was here the man earned his keep, so said his Articles) so that Kyranae could be free to seek out that salvation as soon as possible, because matters of personnel - his own and other people’s - invariably came next, and - well. He rather liked to think he’d outgrown the compulsion to kill people just because they annoyed him, so really it was best that he find said salvation smartish-like, preferably in very large quantities and double preferably in rum. 

The fat merchant vessels he plundered supplied enough wine to bathe in and enough ale to bathe his _ship_ in, but rum only came out of the deep south - mostly from the coastal islands way down off Far Harad - and couldn’t be had north of Umbar. Kyranae had reasoned long ago that if one such as him had to suffer all the horrors of land then at least they should suffer for something the sea itself did not provide, and to his mind rum was perhaps the worthiest amenity that land could offer.

Well. _Perhaps the second worthiest_ , he amended, when his warm and buxom pillow sighed and shifted beneath him - still asleep; bless. Akanke had kept her bed for him for more years than either of them liked to acknowledge, but there was a subtle form of comfort to be had in such familiarity. Not quite friends, but friendly lovers certainly, with well-charted currents of convenient truths and carefully fathomed lies. He knew she reveled in the fact he had every last inch of her body mapped and memorized; and more, he knew that _she_ knew how much he appreciated having a woman who would always welcome him with open arms (and legs) and yet expected nothing in return beyond the night’s pleasure and the appropriate coins left on the table come morning. A girl in every port, true (-ish) enough, but Akanke was by far his favorite.

When she shifted beneath him again - come to think of it, he really was putting rather a bit more weight on her chest than could reasonably be considered comfortable, even in sleep - Kyranae allowed himself to roll off her (never let it be said that he wasn’t at least a courteous lover) but in doing so he momentarily forgot himself and so let his head and shoulders flop down onto his pillow with a heavy, bouncing thud that caused the militant lamplight to fracture into a thousand brittle shards that seemed to stab at his whole face like the needle-rain of a Haradian typhoon, and he silently yet vehemently cursed land and all things related to land as he pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes to block the light and maybe, hopefully, keep his brains from dribbling out. 

Alas, the pressure from his hands only increased the pounding in his ears and he dropped his arms in weary resignation. Just his luck that he hadn’t had enough rum to render him dead to the world until it was time to stumble back to his ship. Just his luck that he’d had _too much_ rum to entertain any thoughts of another go-round with Akanke just yet. Just his luck that the pounding grew steadily louder in his port-side ear as he cursed it.

It was that last, stray thought that fairly catapulted him up to sitting, and then only a blind flail for the headboard that kept him at least mostly upright. And it was a struggle, but he was able to cudgel his senses into behaving as they ought, and yes: the pounding really _was_ louder to port, and that fact was even less comforting than the fleeting idea that the rum had somehow drained unevenly enough through his head that his brains had been left with a noticeable list - because not even the most vicious of hangovers could hammer at his skull from _outside_ it! And with that thought, Kyranae hauled himself smartly off the bed to stumble on uncertain land-legs towards the window. There he threw back the curtain, and stuck his head out into the malodorous sea breeze that drifted up from the dockyard.

Then, for the first time in his considerable piratical career, all curses failed him.

That pounding he heard was the sound of stone hitting stone, the sound of the two great watchtowers at the harbor mouth being pounded by heavy artillery. In the dark he could barely make out the towers, but a cloud of scintillating quarry dust drifted over the harbor mouth like an unnatural fog as those towers retaliated, their ballistae answering crude stone with flame shot. 

Then, as though the God of the Winds reached out and parted his own curtain, the first ships emerged from the cloud.

And then they just kept coming.

The ketches were first. Eighteen of them, all flying the colors of Dol Amroth below the white-on-black ensign of the Royal Navy - and that was the bulk of Prince Adrahil’s merchant fleet! They'd obviously been outfitted specially for raiding: Kyranae could just make out the dim figures of archers perched on the crosstrees, and no doubt the holds he so loved to plunder were now full up with armed and armored men - and no mere merchant marines, either. He'd bet his bonnie brig those holds were full of soldiers in full plate. And they were sailing pristinely towards him - towards the dockyard! Just as his mind recovered enough of itself to taunt him with the mental math of just _how many_ soldiers those converted merchanters could carry--

Their escorts arrived. 

Dromons glided in behind ketches, long and low and so very lethal, just barely keeping pace pace with the smaller sail-crafts as they flew before the wind. There were seven of those lethal sluggards, their castle decks brimming with Gondor’s finest and their bows heavily armored. Kyranae watched the armada approach with a sort of sickly awe, but as as one by one those dromons slowed and began to alter course, he realized - in a dizzying rush of ice-cold terror - that if the dromons had been sent to deal with Umbar’s ships in harbor (ships like his own, good Great Mariner’s hoard!) then Old Addy’s ketches must be bound for the docks, and with numbers like those--

That was no mere raiding party, oh no. It was an invasion fleet. By all the Gods, Gondor was sailing to war! 

"Wha’s it now?"

Akanke’s sleep-heavy voice at his shoulder startled him utterly. He spun away from the window, half reaching for the sword he wasn’t even wearing, and nearly tripped over his own two leaden feet when he found that she was standing right behind him, clad only in the ratty bed sheet.

"Kyranae?"

He shot her a thunderous glare - half genuine anger (asleep-addled was no excuse; Akanka damned well knew better than to startle him like that) and half his own wounded pride - before he wrenched his body back again and redirected his attention to the parade of death marching through their harbor. A sharp spike of fear lanced through him at the thought of his own ship resting out there, a succulent lamb for those rabid northern wolves to tear asunder.

Akanke shouldered him somewhat out of the way so that she too could see out the narrow window. "Kyranae?" Her tone was hesitant. "What--"

"Get dressed," he interrupted tersely. The parts and parcels of plans were already aligning themselves in his fertile mind, but time was decidedly not on their side. "Get the girls together an' run for the armory."

"But--"

"Do it, woman!" he snapped, a captain not used to his orders being questioned. Then he abandoned the window and stalked hastily past her to the stretch of floor where most of their clothes had landed.

Akanke followed him. "What about you?" she asked as Kyranae hopped back into his breeches. 

"I’ve gotta get back t' my ship." He grabbed for his shirt. 

"Well take me with you!" Akanke demanded. She was shrewd enough realize the sudden danger they found themselves in, if only because Kyranae had been too stunned to hide his own fear in those precious, wasted seconds it took for his wits to catch up to his instincts.

"Ship’s no place for a woman," he dismissed as he shrugged into his vest. Then he slung his baldric over his shoulder and made sure his cutlass was secure at his hip.

"Don’t you leave me here!” Still half-naked, she flew towards him, her fists grabbing for whatever parts of his person that she could hold to. Kyranae was faster though; he intercepted her, caught her neatly by the wrists and diverted her hands before they could latch on. His grip tightened when she tried to wrench away again, and he pulled her back to face him. 

“Bastard!” she spat at him, still struggling in his hold. Ah, such beautiful fire, his Akanke, and never quite so lovely as when she was furious with him. 

"You’ll be safer in the armory," he told her, and since it was the Gods’ honest truth it even sounded sincere enough she might actually believe him. "Round up the girls - an' the lads for that matter - an' head for the keep.” 

"Kyranae--"

"This city’s about t' become a battlefield," he explained, interrupting again as he stooped to lace his boots. His fingers flew with alarming dexterity for a man still several sheets to the wind. "Old hook-nose’ll have the militia mobilized - willing or not - and unless I miss my guess those navy rats'll want t' set fire t' the yards." 

"No!" Akanke exclaimed, horrified and with good reason. The shipyards, like the vast majority of the dockside buildings, were made of planking and timber from old ships, and simple thatching for their roofs. For the countless years that Gondor offered no real threat to Umbar fire remained their biggest enemy. The city proper - the overbuilt hull of the ancient stronghold - was slightly safer for its stone construction; but Old-Town was not the heart of the city, nor where most of her citizenry lived.

"Now do as I say, Akanke, for once in yer miserable life, an' get everyone out of here!” And if Kyranae’s voice had slipped, just a little bit at the end, and the lash of his anger fell short? Well, great and terrible pirate captain he might be, and with enough notches on his sword hilt (if he’d ever bothered with such things) to rival the ones on Akanke’s bedposts, but for all his crimes he only ever killed women what were actively and expertly engaged in trying to end his own life, and he'd _never_ , not even in his blackest moods, thought it just and good - or even, heavens forfend, _sporting_ \- to murder children. There were four little ones in this cathouse alone, bastard whoresons and daughters, all. “Please,” Kyranae added - unintentionally, really; it just sort of slipped out - when he remembered them. 

"And what of you?" Akanke asked; capitulation this time, finally. He saw it in her eyes.

"They’ll be expectin' us t' stand an' fight," he reasoned, a grace note of laughter underpinning the bitterness in his voice. What choice did they have, with so many soldiers landing here? Very soon you wouldn’t be able to swing your arms without hitting a son of Gondor. "But if I hurry I just might be able t' slip through, push the _Eglandur_ out past the breakwater.” If those bastard dromons hadn’t sunk her yet, but that thought did not bear thinking on. Their ships still outnumbered Gondor’s more than 2 to1 out there - and that was doubtless half the reason for the ketches, anyway: if you couldn’t beat ‘em on the sea then you took the fight to land - but still it gave him decent odds his _Eglandur_ was safe, yet. 

But she wouldn’t be for long, so her captain had to hurry. When Kyranae turned to do just that Akanke grabbed him by the arm. 

"Wait - you’re _running?!_ And I thought the great Captain Kyranae never ran from a fight." If she’d tried for mocking she was still to angry to carry it properly. Instead she’d sounded accusatory - and who knows? Maybe she’d aimed there all along. Maybe he even deserved it. 

"They’re sacking us, Akanke," he told her, though not unkindly. "Fleet like that? They’re after more'n just our ships this time. They mean t' kill anyone what can rebuild them - along with whoever’s standing in their way, no matter how small or femininely persuaded.” But as serious as the moment was, he couldn’t help the undignified snort that preceded his next thought. “An' I’ll wager that damned fool Imaran’ll throw every able body in their way that he can reach, never mind that a press-gang of merchants an' stevedores is hardly a match for a legion of Gondor’s finest!”

Akanke flinched at that, as well she ought. No doubt their Leisurely Lord would think he was vexing Gondor’s efforts, when in fact all he was doing was wasting lives. That was just the damned fool way Imaran thought.

“They’ll set fires in the docks an the ' yards - they always do, no reason t' think this time it’ll be any different - an' those fires’ll corral everyone what hasn’t fled up to Old-Town and trap ‘em down by the water, where the fighting’ll be heaviest. Now I’ve got me a ship and crew t’ see to. _Please_ , Akanke, get gone with ye - an’ spread the word! An’ herd as many as ye can!"

Thankfully it looked as though the woman finally saw sense. “The keep,” she said, nodding. “But Kyranae - what if they follow us?”

“Barricade the doors,” he said. “An’ see if ye can’t remember yer prayers." And with that, Kyranae finally, _finally_ took his leave. 

"Be careful!" Akanke called after him, a veritable first for her. It was unexpected enough that it stopped him cold, just outside her door, though he didn’t turn around.

"Always am, luv," he said, the truest lie he’d ever told.

Then he was gone, down the hall and down the stairs, post haste. This battle would not wait kindly for him and his to be ready for it.

Kyranae needed to round up as many of his men as he could find, and quickly. A bonny little brig was his Dark Lady, but her captain needed to pile as many men on her sweeps as possible if he expected her to outrun the dromons. In truth his ship would need to carry both full crew and full canvas in order to give them a fighting chance, but his first mate had the watch tonight and though the man could be bit too fond of the drink he was both a paranoid pirate and a canny sailor. He would have retained at least a third of the crew to guard the holds and so with any luck Kyranae would return to his Lady to find half her sails already sheeted home.

Yet a third of his men still left him two score hands short, and therefore short four score hands of hands to man the sweeps. Fortunately Kyranae was a captain who made it a point to get to know his crew. He ran down to the end of the ground floor hallway and burst through the far door without knocking. The reverberating slam of the door hitting the wall was punctuated by an ear-splitting shriek.

"Malach! Up, you dog!" Kyranae grabbed his coxswain’s breeches off the back of a nearby chair and tossed them onto the bed, hitting the man square in the face when he poked his head out from under the covers. "Assemble yer bilgerats an' get back t’ the ship."

"Captain--"

" _Now_ , man! Before the thrice-damned Royal Navy sends her t' the briny deep!" 

Either his words or his vehemence caused another dark, disheveled head to peek out from between the sheets. "Beggin’ your pardon, Narisa," he added with a sudden, unrepentant grin around an appreciative leer at the nubile chest that followed that head as the girl sat up to gape at him. But then just as suddenly he sobered. "Get her to Akanke," he told Malach. "An’ then get me my oarsmen!" 

With that, Kyranae turned and stormed from the room with the same ferocity in which he entered. Now he marched back down the hallway, kicking doors in as he went. "Abandon ship!" he shouted in a voice well used to shouting orders, knowing it would carry to the rafters here just as well as it carried to his own topgallants. "Gondor’s sailing under red flags tonight! Get out while ye can!" He left of a flurry of panicked activity trailing in his wake.

Malach caught up with him by the back door, shirtless and staggering to fasten his sword belt, but at least he’d managed to hobble into his boots. "There be dromons in the bay, sir! Four by my count."

"Seven," Kyranae corrected darkly. "And eighteen of Old Addy’s merchant ketches--"

"Eighteen--"

"--all chock a' block with Gondor’s finest."

They exited into alley behind the brothel, and when they rounded the corner into the street they found that the distant dissonance of clashing steel had brought chaos up from the dockyards. People were dashing to and fro, scurrying in various states of dress and sobriety from building to building in alarm - or in _raising_ the alarm - that the ketches had made landfall. Kyranae’s hand drifted to the hilt of his sword. At this hour there wouldn’t be much resistance at the docks or even in the shipyards. The fight would soon drift inland.

"It seems His Not-Quite-Royal Almost-Highness has finally grown a pair," Malach muttered under his breath.

"Aye," Kyranae answered, grimacing. "And their names are Thalion and Falkáno."

Hating a ship for the colors she flew made about as much sense to Kyranae as hating a slave for the master what chained him, but ever since that damned honey-tongued Captain of Ships talked the Steward into building those square-rigged monstrosities pirating in the Southern Seas had fallen to leeward. Gondor’s shipping lanes were now policed by two hulking hounds, large enough to scare off all but the most daring of pirates and armed enough to effectively deal with the rest. 

Incidentally, they were also the only ships capable of mounting heavy artillery with enough shot to feasibly stand a chance at knocking the great watchtowers down - and perhaps, he thought suddenly, that had been their actual purpose all along, and their maiden voyage of pirate hunting had been for the benefit of their own crew, such that they might properly learn their measure before sailing into battle.

Well, no matter. They were the ships that Kyranae would have to get passed when he made his bid for freedom, and that was all he cared about. "I need men on my oars, Malach." 

Malach nodded. "Aye, captain. I think I know where I can find ‘em."

"Make haste - an’ mind that ye steer clear of Imaran’s pack of bullies."

"I’d die afore I join any fool militia!" Malach swore indignantly.

"I’d rather ye did neither. Now get out of here!"

"Aye, sir!" 

The coxswain took off, loping in his portly gait further down along the narrow lane, no doubt headed for some other house of ill-reputable, be it full of ale or whores. Kyranae did not heed his departure. The sounds of battle were much louder now and more people had flooded the street. Those who couldn’t or wouldn’t fight were making for Old-Town and good for them, but there were a few brave souls yet who were running for the shipyards, and Kyranae read bloodlust and ancient grudge in their intent as they passed by. The sons of Umbar had a long memory; they would not concede victory to Gondor without a fight. And death mattered little to the sons of the Harad-lands as long as there was northmen blood to be spilt in the bargain.

Kyranae’s eyes were cold as he drew his cutlass from its humble sheath. Age had darkened the steel but care had seen that the blade retained its lethal edge. Together they had delivered many men into the scythe of the reaper and before the night was out their tale would grow again. Yet unlike much of his cohort he was not preparing to rush headlong into battle simply for the sake of dragging however many of Gondor’s sons down with him before the end. No, rather his aim tonight was the _saving_ of lives - namely his own, and those of his crew, and the Dark Lady _Eglandur_ who owned his soul.

"I’m coming," he vowed, his voice low and fierce, a promise he fully intended to honor in blood. Then he ran towards the docks, towards the battle that sat between him and the rest of his life.

As he approached, he swiftly learned that ‘chaos’ was an understatement, and he slowed to a heavy-footed halt as he reached the threshold where the narrow lane ended and the docks began. There were two great shipyards here, squatting at either side of the sprawling port, each sporting warehouses and dry-docks and their very own piers. And they were both under attack, having attracted four ketches each. Kyranae knew this because only ( _only!_ ) ten of those merchanters-turned-transports had pulled up to the docks between, hemming all the launches in. 

By now those ketches had unloaded, and the swath of sand between the cobbled streets and the wooden docks was overrun with soldiers considerably more armed and armored than the marines he was used to dealing with. These soldiers came with full plate, heavy broadswords, and shields in the heraldry of the White Tree, and Kyranae - with just his simple cutlass by his side and clad only in cotton wool without the chain vest that he wore raiding - felt considerably underdressed for the party.

And his similarly adorned pirate brethren were being cut down with alarming ease as they tried in vain to defend themselves, their ships, their haven…

" _Captain!_ "

Kyranae turned sharply at the panicked shout and saw Saeros, the youngest member of his crew, running full-sail towards him, accompanied by Lorgan, the Dark Easterling who was his boatswain’s mate and chief topman. Lorgan was a fey, violent sort: deadly on a raid, but his absolute loyalty was guaranteed by a life debt; he would follow his captain to Mordor and back without question or complaint. In short, he was exactly the kind of man that Kyranae needed, now.

They'd all found it strange when Lorgan took young Saeros under his wing - the lad had been barely old enough to shave when he’d joined the _Eglandur’s_ crew, not entirely of his own volition. He’d been cabin boy on a merchant ship that sailed out of Belfalas, a ship that Kyranae had shamelessly plundered. He’d found Saeros lying half dead in the hold, not too young apparently to have received a grown man’s flogging for - stars, but Kyranae hardly remembered what he’d said the offense was, just that it had been something extremely stupid - and he’d simply ordered the lad carried back to the _Eglandur_ as part of the swag. Ordered _Lorgan_ , as it turned out, since ‘half dead’ was not in any way an exaggeration, and when he’d seen the lad up close he found sixteen causes to regret the swift, clean death he’d handed Saeros’ former captain.

By luck alone did Saeros survive the infection that had taken his wounds, and over time the welts healed over, and a steady regimen of full-plus-half rations had seen the lad slowly returned to decent health. When he was strong enough he signed onto Kyranae’s Articles without even being asked (which was lucky; he’d have hated to have to press the lad into indenture, if only for long enough to repay the food he’d eaten and the canvas they’d scrapped for his bandages; not after he’d spent so long painstakingly earning Saeros’ trust) and then - and to everyone’s surprise - Lorgan had decreed that he would see to the lad’s education. Saeros was now one of Kyranae’s most able-bodied topmen, and though he refused to join in a raid and kill his former countrymen, he made up in good seamanship what he lacked in even halfway decent piracy. But a loyal sailor was nothing to take umbrage with so Kyranae did not begrudge him his sentimentality, misplaced though it might be. 

And yet Saeros was still, as Kyranae had occasion to recall, frightfully young, as evidenced by how his voice cracked slightly when he’d called for his captain.

"Have ye seen anyone else?" Kyranae demanded when his crewmen reached him.

"We come from Elsinore’s," Lorgan answered while Saeros shook his head. "She run for the old stones now. We the only ones who come."

Elsinore was a rotund woman of Eastern descent who kept a small house not far from the docks, and she was either Lorgan’s sister or his fourth wife, depending on which language was used when asking him. Kyranae nodded, though his grimace belied the fact that he was not entirely happy to hear that - if Lorgan had dragged Saeros into some tavern or brothel instead of towards a home-cooked meal he might have learned the whereabouts of more of his men.

"We must make for the _Eglandur_ ," he told them, the mantle of command lending a bit false calm to his voice. Captains did not panic; they hadn't the luxury.

"How, captain?" Saeros asked, wide-eyed, even as Lorgan gaped at how crowded their harbor had become. "They’ve scuppered all the boats!" 

A quick glance revealed the truth of his crewman’s words - indeed, all the launches had been stove in by Gondor’s soldiers - and it made Kyranae’s blood run cold. He’d not been joking when he’d said Gondor was sailing under the red flag, but to come face to face with the truth of it, with the fact that their enemies wanted to pen them in their haven like rats on a sinking ship, sent a towering wall of white-hot rage crashing over him like a rogue wave. To meet his death in battle was one thing, but to be forced to meet that death on land, herded into it like sheep to the slaughter? Frost would fall on the mountain of flame before he’d let some landlocked peon monarch keep him from his ship!

"Then we’ll take theirs!" And he took off at a dead run down towards the docks, leaving his crewmen scrambling behind him, struggling to catch him up.

Kyranae had no intentions of stopping in his mad dash for freedom long enough to cross swords with anyone, but unfortunately it could not be avoided. As he struggled to find the path of least resistance across the field of battle the fighting closed in around him. The first soldier to fall to his blade that day he killed almost by accident, the man having stumbled directly into his path after dispatching some poor pirate. _Literally_ stumbled - he’d lost his footing in the sand and lurched sideways, just in time for Kyranae to crash headlong into his back. And Kyranae, much surer on his feet, recovered faster than his impromptu obstacle, and wrapped his free arm around the man’s shoulders to hold him in place while he deftly brought his sword up to slit his enemy’s throat. A panicked cry fell into a squelchy gurgle as the soldier fell forward, and Kyranae nimbly leapt over his corpse before it’d even settled on the ground.

_Sorry, mate._

His (not exactly) pristine white shirt now speckled crimson, Kyranae continued to dart and dance his way through the fighting. When he finally reached the docks he had to jump onto a pylon to avoid the death throes of some poor soul - a fisherman, by the look of him, who’d brought a harpoon to a sword fight and lost - but he barely acknowledged the soldier who cut the man down. Now standing head and shoulders above the battle he spared a moment to scan the crowd, and a thin smile struck across his lips at the sight of Imaran’s militiamen streaming down the narrow streets towards the quay.

Despite being an incompetent sailor and worse a captain, Imaran was still a ruthless pirate who lacked all the right scruples to secure himself the position of Lord of the city. He fancied himself the Prince of Umbar - Kyranae fancied he was a few cards short of a deck - but his loyal (well-paid) brute squad had been ‘recruiting’ men into his militia for months now, probably on the whispers of this very attack, now Kyranae thought of it. His retainers had increased as the number of ships in their yards increased, but one had best be paranoid after making deals with devils. They’d all heard the rumors: that Imaran had been holding clandestine meetings with emissaries of the Black Tower, building ships for some nefarious purpose beyond pirating in Gondor’s waters, but by throwing their lot in with Gondor’s enemy they had courted the wrath of the _White_ Tower in turn, and in doing so the damned fool had brought this doom upon them all. 

Kyranae hoped with all his heart that the bastard met a particularly cruel and painful end - _he_ certainly hadn’t sworn any allegiances to the Black Tower, but Gondor didn’t discriminate, and how many of his brethren now must pay the price for one man’s folly?

Though their methods differed greatly, both the Black Tower and the White fought over the same prize: the right to rule him, and Kyranae swore long ago that he would kneel before nothing and no one and so he pledged his life to the sea. Let the landlocked nations fight over their piles of dust and stone, for none of them could hold one ounce of dominion over the wind and waves. He belonged, body and spirit, to the _Eglandur_ , and she belonged to no one but the sea. Doubtless that harsh and fickle mistress would claim them both one day, but _until_ that day there was no one else in all the world who lived more freely. Not these poor sons of Gondor, whose lives and earnings were deemed the property of their liege lords and subject to their whims; and certainly not the lords themselves, mere custodians of all that wealth and power, and made to bow before a man whose head was too big to hold a crown.

So Imaran chose to trade his own freedom for an empty promise of survival? Well bollocks to that! Kyranae would live his own way or he would not live at all.

And if he didn’t get out of here soon it just might come to that.

"Corsairs!" he cried from his perch atop the pylon. "Are ye soldiers or are ye sailors?! Follow me - now - an' leave the landlocked to their fate!" Born from years of practice at shouting orders to the topgallants in a gale, Kyranae’s voice carried easily across the pandemonium of the dockyards and, as though he were the conductor of a brutal symphony, the course of the entire battle shifted at his words. Though he hadn’t seen them yet there were more of his crew in the melee than just Saeros and Lorgan. It was Îbal, his boatswain and second mate, who was the first to shout: "to the _Eglandur!_ "

Kyranae allowed himself a moment of satisfaction as he saw a good number of his cohort abandon the defense of the port - even some of Imaran’s militia - and make for his position. Many of those now flocking to him had never once sailed under his Articles and perhaps knew him only by reputation - or maybe not even at all. And he knew how he must look to them, as he stood there at the pier well above the fighting: that it was as though the whole bloody affair was somehow beneath him, for indeed - to him - it really, truly was. Kyranae cared not for war or land or the men who coveted it with such terrible greed, but rather for the sea and his ship and the freedom they brought him - and brought to the men he paid in equal shares, down to the last bilgerat manning his oars. And those who knew him knew well that he would fight to the bitter ends for every last man jack of them, and those who didn’t know were simply pulled along in the undertow, lured in by that same lust for freedom, content to sail along in his wake. 

It was a _very small_ moment of satisfaction, however, because he’d made himself a target with that little speech of his, and in that instant a dozen swords seemed to fly at him from all directions, forcing him to sacrifice his position atop the pylon. Suddenly faced with more opponents than should be allowed by the rules of engagement (not that he actually _followed_ said rules, of course, but Gondor?) Kyranae did what what he did best.

He ran.

Well, more to a point, he slashed wildly with his blade to parry one blow, dropped to his knees to duck under another, and stabbed the tip of his sword with all his might through the hardened leather covering the nearest toe. Then he wrenched the sword free as he shot to his feet while the unfortunate soldier’s knees buckled with an agonized cry. As they passed, Kyranae caught the man squarely by the edges of his hauberk and deftly pivoted all that armor so that it stood between him and the next blow. The attacking soldier tried to abort his swing but it still glanced off Kyranae’s human shield, and with a swift boot to the backside the poor abused soldier fell into the flailing arms of his comrades. _Then_ he ran.

Straight for the nearest ketch.

" _Kyranae! You traitorous bastard!_ " Imaran’s voice boomed from somewhere unseen, and Kyranae grinned. Not his fault the idiot couldn’t keep a handle on his men.

As he scrambled up the gangplank he turned, more daring than wise, and scanned the sea of flesh and steel for the doomed so-called Prince of Umbar. He caught sight of Imaran standing behind the battle at the end of one of the narrow dockside streets, waving that ridiculous broadsword of his and, to Kyranae’s mind, practically frothing at the mouth in indignation and rage. 

Still grinning, Kyranae waved his own sword in a lazy return salute and, as the coup de grace, brought up his free hand to blow the fool a kiss goodbye. The answering shouts were unintelligible as he turned and scrambled up the gangplank and over the rail.

Unfortunately - if not unexpectedly - his target’s crew had left a skeleton watch behind: sailors and a small contingent of marines to guard them. And to a man they were all momentarily stunned to see one of their enemies so brazenly march into the proverbial wolf den.

"Any man what’s not looking t' die can run below," he told them, appearing every bit the feared and fabled pirate captain that haunted their cultural nightmares. "Give up yer longboats an’ spare yer lives."

The poor sailors took what quarter they were given and fled below decks. Yet no matter how intimidating, one man was still just one man. The marines knew they had the advantage. They waited for the civilians to clear the deck - still somewhat civilized, then; Kyranae was (almost) ashamed of his surprise - but then on some unspoken cue they charged. Kyranae brought his sword up, fully expecting to be forced to fight for his life once again - but before the pack reached him the lead marine was suddenly thrown back into his comrades, who faltered at the sight of bravest of them suddenly cut down, a dagger lodged to the hilt in his left eye.

Though his back was to rescuer Kyranae smiled openly in relief and gratitude. "Took you long enough," he admonished, absolutely no heat behind the words, as he felt more than saw Lorgan slide up beside him, his dark frame towering over his captain as he held a bloodied scimitar in one hand and another throwing dagger in the other.

"You want trophies?" Lorgan asked in as serious a voice as he could manage over the wolfish grin he fixed upon the regrouping marines.

"No time," Kyranae informed his boatswain’s mate, just as seriously. It was well known in Gondorian folklore that the ‘wicked Southrons’ had more fun with an enemy after he was dead. Lorgan, an Easterling, found even Gondor’s exaggerations of such practices quite repugnant, but the men of Gondor wouldn’t know that. If indeed they could even tell the difference between the peoples of Khand and the Harad-lands in the first place; ignorant slaves of their Steward, the lot of them.

The ploy worked: the marines hesitated, and it cost them. In the meantime, more of his corsairs vaulted over the rail from the gangplank and came to stand with their captain, Saeros and Îbal among them.

"I say again, any man what doesn’t want t’ go the way of that poor mother’s son had better get his ruddy hide off this deck." Kyranae’s voice was measured as he made a show of inclining his head towards to the dead marine, of letting the marines know that he was nearing the frayed ends of his patience.

The marines were not soldiers in Gondor’s army; they were the original contingent that sailed with the ketch when it was still a merchant vessel. To be expected to defend the ship and crew from pirates on the open water was one thing, but to be asked to do so here, on land and in the middle of a brushfire war? Duty rooted their feet to the decking but their courage was ebbing as surely as the tide.

"The captain is good to his word," Saeros spoke up suddenly, completely startling the marines with his Belfalan accent. "Stand aside and you’ll nae be harmed."

Kyranae held his breath: for a moment it looked like the marines might actually surrender their ship!

A very small moment, because suddenly someone started shouting and then world tilted violently and the deck rose surprisingly fast to meet him.

It all happened so quickly. One of the sailors hadn’t fled below decks after all but instead had flown up the ratlines and, unnoticed, managed to saw through the halyards on the main mast with his knife. Freed of its moorings, the main gaff gave way and plummeted to the deck below, pulling the mainsail down with it. With very little warning given both the corsairs and the marines were left scrambling to get out of its way. It was Lorgan who'd shoved Kyranae out of the path of the gaff, but he was still buried by the mainsail.

When he finally scrambled out from beneath the mammoth swatch of canvas, the side of his face was bloody from where his head collided with the deck - or was that the gaff itself on its way down? As his vision gradually swam back into focus he was greeted with the sight of eight more dead marines littering the deck, but three dead pirates joined them, one of whom was Lorgan, who still lay where the gaff had pinned him to the deck. Kyranae watched as Saeros somehow found the strength in his adolescent arms to shove the massive spar of Lorgan’s chest, but he lacked the strength in his adolescent resolve to control the shameful wetness that stained his cheeks as he cried Lorgan’s name and slapped his face, though nothing would ever wake the Easterling again.

"Îbal!" Kyranae’s voice was brittle as he called for his boatswain, and when the man stumbled forward, cut and limping on his right leg, he very nearly recoiled. Probably at the ghastly sight Kyranae presented just now.

"Captain?" 

"Bring down the mast." 

Îbal nodded, both in acknowledgement and approval. "Aye."

Seventeen pirates had followed Kyranae from the dockyard and so fourteen remained, and all were thirsty for revenge and gladly offered their hands to the boatswain. Though Kyranae understood their desire he pulled some of them away from the mast and told them to ready the longboats. They were better served by haste, both to escape the soldiers that would soon fully notice that something was disastrously amiss with one of their own ships, and then to reach the _Eglandur_ before one of the Dromons did. Never before had Kyranae been so glad that the Port of Umbar had been full up while his own ship was still in residence.

Yet Kyranae was not about to let a coward get away with murdering three of his men, and he kept his gaze fixed to where the main topsail now flapped in the breeze, occasionally obscuring the man who clung to the mast like a tide-pool starfish. If hate alone could have ended the wretched sailor’s life he would already be dead.

The boatswain made short work of the task, spurred on by the death of his mate and with plentiful helpers all keen for vengeance. Stays and shrouds were cut away and wood was splintered asunder by hatchets and purloined swords, and so the mainmast toppled over, topsail trailing as it went and mainsail - still attached at its foot to the boom - tumbling clumsily after. The sailor’s panicked screams cut out with a great splashing crash as the mast hit the water, and the weight of the topsail shoved the top of the mast underwater while the heavier mainsail escorted it to its watery grave. Thus satisfied, the men seeing to the longboats wasted no time in lowering them to the water, and they called out their readiness before the ripples had time to fade away.

"Time to go!" Kyranae shouted. "Smartly lads - into the boats!" 

He spared a moment to ensure that his men were following his orders before he allowed himself the chance to collect his cutlass, now revealed where it had landed after the sail had fallen away. It was still bloody when he sheathed it, though he paid the mess no mind as his gaze lingered on Saeros, still kneeling at Lorgan’s side. The lad had abandoned his efforts to awaken his friend and was instead holding onto one cooling hand while struggling through his best attempt at an Eastern prayer. The sight belayed Kyranae’s anger at the lad’s disregard for his orders, and the stern words he had prepared died in his throat and fell instead into a sigh. Rather than hoisting Saeros bodily to his feet Kyranae allowed a tired hand to land heavily upon his shoulder.

Saeros nearly jumped out of his skin at the sudden weight, and he shifted like he might stand, but then just as suddenly he stilled when he heard his captain’s voice maneuver flawlessly through the benediction that had confounded his own tongue. 

"Right then," Kyranae said next after a moment’s respectful pause, startling the lad enough again that perhaps he didn’t hear the weight of years that so strained his captain's voice, just then. "Lorgan’d want ye t' live long enough t’ drink in his memory."

Saeros nodded dutifully and accepted a hand up. He followed Kyranae to the rail where the men had haphazardly strung lengths of rope for repelling down the ketch’s hull to the longboats, but a sudden rumbling, low and loud, interrupted them before they could climb over the edge. Kyranae’s eyes widened: it was the concussion of many booted feet on the gangplank!

"Move!" he shouted, then leapt up onto the railing with an uncanny grace for a man whose normal gate was a drunken swagger. There he wasted no time, executing a perfect swan dive even before Saeros could climb up after him. The last sound to reach his ears before they broke though the surface of the water was an angry voice shouting: " _halt in the name of the Steward!_ "

He surfaced quickly, and swam with all his strength towards the nearest longboat. His men, not surprised in the least by their captain’s sudden and dramatic entrance, reached out and pulled him in.

"Where’s Saeros?" Kyranae gasped as he fought to catch his breath, and if the slight shivers from the chill of the water and the mild night air made his voice sound harsh in his men’s ears than at least it did not sound worried.

His answer came in an indistinct shout from above as the youngest of his crew suddenly vaulted over the ketch’s rail, legs treading air and arms pinwheeling madly. Kyranae might have grinned, but then his teeth were chattering.

"Get him in a boat!" he shouted instead, and did his best to ignore the young man’s struggling dog-paddle. Some sailors preferred not knowing how to swim because it made a death at sea mercifully quick instead of long and lingering. Kyranae scoffed at the idea - the skill having saved his life more than once - and ordered his crew to learn. If they wanted a quick death, well that’s what steel was for. Apparently Saeros could do with another lesson.

Soon enough the two longboats were underway, many hands on their oars giving them considerable speed. Even still, they could not row fast enough for Kyranae, who sat point in his longboat and swept his gaze across the harbor in desperate search for his beloved ship, striving seemingly in vain to pierce the evening gloom and the smoke from distant fires to determine if the _Eglandur_ was one of the many that were already burning. Mercifully though they found his Dark Lady still untouched by the dromons, with men on her yards desperately trying to bend on additional sails. Kyranae gave a sigh of relief and let his eyes slip closed, a prayer of thanks winging its way towards the God of the Winds for this good fortune.

" _Ahoy the Eglandur!_ " Kyranae shouted once they were within earshot. The men on the yards spotted the longboats easily and many pointed and shouted, though their words were lost on the wind. A moment later and the first mate appeared at the rail, his lips parted in a rare, genuine smile.

"Good to see you, captain!" the man called down to him as the longboats drew even to the _Eglandur's_ hull.

"Aye! It’s good to be seen!"

"I should have known better than to discount you."

"For shame, Hathol! I’d never abandon my lady in her hour of need."

As ropes were lowered and the additional crew hauled aboard the first mate shook his head, and Kyranae knew why. Hathol had long since held that his captain had some rare power over fate, some strange gift of the Gods that allowed him to chart the course of his own destiny on the same map where he charted the course of the _Eglandur_ , or that he could bend the world to suit his will with the same easy skill in which he bent his ship through the windward passage around the shoals of Tolfalas. All rubbish, of course. Though to be fair, Hathol always was a bit touched in the head, even before Oroun’s death saw to his promotion.

Right now the _Eglandur_ needed him, and for Kyranae it was as simple as that. Not even an entire legion of Gondor’s infantry could prevent him from coming to her aid. 

"Welcome aboard," Hathol said with genuine pleasure as his captain found his footing on the main deck at last. Kyranae had waited until the rest of his impromptu crew had found their way aboard before accepting a rope and being hauled in himself.

Kyranae merely nodded as he took a moment to bask in the improbable joy of finally being reunited with his ship. Even now his hand still rested possessively on her rail. "Thanks for looking after her awhile," he said at length, though by then his eyes had drifted from the decking up to the topgallant yards where his men were adjusting the sheets.

"Was my pleasure," Hathol answered, even as his smile began to falter, a puzzled expression surfacing in its place as he studied the longboats that were drifting away from the _Eglandur’s_ hull. "Whose runners are those?"

"Borrowed ‘em from Gondor," Kyranae replied around a fallen cherubim smile, both innocence and mischief balanced on an even keel. "They weren’t using ‘em anyway."

The first mate simply shook his head, his long-suffering sigh undermined by his laughter, yet any retort that Kyranae could have made was cut off by a shout from above.

" _Dromon ho!_ " And those simple words sent a spike of fear straight through Kyranae’s heart. " _She’s bearin' down on our starboard beam!_ "

Everyone raced across the deck to the starboard rail. Sure enough one of Gondor’s dromons was marching towards them at ramming speed. She was listing heavily to port and the armor on her bow sat splintered and askew - she’d obviously survived one assault on a pirate vessel and now aimed to score her second. Another crest of rage swamped Kyranae’s fear as he realized that the dromon would be completely scuppered by the collision, because that meant her captain’s aim wasn’t to sink the _Eglandur_ but to capture her instead.

"All men to arms!" he shouted "Cut the anchor free! Helm - who the devil has my helm? - come hard t' port! Rack the starboard oars an' haul heavy on the larboard!"

"Captain, we’ve no men below!" The first mate’s voice was a more controlled shade of panic than that which suddenly seized his captain’s heart at the news. "I’ve sent them all aloft!"

"Well get ‘em down here! If we let those whores’ son dogs punch a hole in our broadside we’ll ne’er have need of sails again!"

"Aye, captain!" 

The first mate turned to shout the order up the trees but his captain was already gone: racing up the gangway to the quarterdeck and thence towards his cabin, all but crashing through the door. He shucked his baldric without unbuckling it and tossed it on his bed even as his mad flight carried him to the far wall and it’s rack of storage trunks. A moment’s frantic search procured his leather vest and the chainmail shirt he had so recently lamented being without. He put the vest on over his shirt, then pulled the chainmail over the vest, and his raiding belt followed suit after another frantic dig through the trunk. He made sure his lockpicks and brace of throwing knives were all secure, transferred his sword from baldric to belt, and then lastly he pulled his hair into a tight queue at the back of his neck and bound it with a strip of red cloth.

Finally appropriately dressed for battle, Kyranae made sure that his sword sat loosely in its sheath and grabbed his punching dagger from his chest of weapons. He secured the anchor cord around his wrist and slipped his hand into the narrow basket hilt that protected his fingers as they curled into a fist around the leather strap that prevented him from impaling his palm on his own fingernails. The four-inch blade that was now an extension of his fist gleamed wickedly in the diffused moonlight that shone through his cabin window. 

This was his trademark. ‘Dread-Hand’ they called him, compatriots and enemies alike, and he didn’t at all mind the fearsome reputation that preceded him because of it. Every opponent who laid down his sword at the sight of the punching dagger might yet live to tell the tale, and so would weave the tapestry of his legend just that much tighter. Of course the tradeoff was that his bloody first mate, yet another of Gondor’s ex-patriots, had taken to calling him ‘Kyranae Erchamion.’ 

Well, he hadn’t minded at first; only after he learned what it _meant_.

Kyranae had felt his Dark Lady start her pirouette while he was dressing, and she was about half done with it by the time he made it back to the main deck - where he saw her yards were empty of his topmen, which explained why she was practically flying through her turn. Every available hand had fled below to man the oars and only the helmsman (Îbal, as it turned out) and first mate remained on deck with him. In that moment Kyranae was reminded that his coxswain never made back to the ship, and he wondered who'd taken the job in Malach's stead. They weren't half bad at it, he reasoned, though it did little to blunt the sting of knowing that Malach was trapped in the port somewhere and - like as not - already dead. So too of all of his crew what hadn't already found their way home. Kyranae could do naught but pray they'd find some way to survive the night, but he didn't hold much hope.

When the _Eglandur_ finished heaving over to port her crew pounded back up from her oar decks with arms in hand, such as they were. They presented less of a target now to the approaching Dromon: instead of her broadside, the warship’s teeth would bite into the _Eglandur's_ starboard quarter. The new angle favored them, or at least made it less likely they'd take irreparable damage to their starboard beam.

Not that the dromon's captain hadn't been counting on them doing exactly that, of course, for why else would he be so willing to scupper his own ship? How else would he expect his war-prize survive the trip to Pelargir? Kyranae knew that, knew that the rat bastard captain opposite him was gambling that he would move to save his ship if given half a chance. Oh, he could have left her as she sat, let Gondor's actions scupper them both in a suicidal bid to ensure that, if they could not win, well then neither would they lose - but then, no. He really couldn't. That royal whore's son had Kyranae pegged - and damn him for it.

Kyranae’s eyes were hard as he studied the dromon bearing down on them. He wondered just how badly she had been damaged in her last assault (and against which ship, but that was more a trivial concern). He wondered how many of her men had died in the ensuing battle and how many were left for his own shorthanded crew to face. He wondered how many more would die when that great ship went under, drowning her oarsmen and whomever was left aboard. He wondered how many he would be forced to kill when his beautiful ship’s decks became a battleground and, worse, how many of his own crew would follow them.

"What’s in your head, Erchamion?"

Kyranae glanced aside and saw that his first mate had come to stand beside him, though he hadn’t noticed the man’s approach. "How many men have we?" he asked gravely.

"Including us?"

Kyranae nodded.

The first mate nearly winced when he answered. "Forty-one."

Forty-one. Just shy of two-thirds of his crew. They could have sailed for freedom with such numbers, but they presented poor odds in a fight against a dromon, even one already wounded. There could easily be a hundred marines on that ship. Oh, with a full crew and time enough to grant the _Eglandur_ her wings they could have outrun their enemy, but with her jibs and spanker down and her topgallants still at least two sheets to the wind on every mast they stood no chance. Standing yet with courses and topsails proudly set she stood a as maiden surprised in her dressing gown and Kyranae’s blood boiled at Gondor’s impudence.

"She’s like to hit us high, 'twix wind an’ water," Kyranae said, his gaze fixed squarely on the dromon; on the battle that drew closer with each passing breath. "See how she lists? She’ll impale us like a stick-fisherman an’ hold us ‘til her men gain the advantage. Then those bastards’ll back the _Eglandur_ off her carcass an’ return to Gondor in a very pretty prize." Kyranae’s voice was strained, caught fast between the poles of pure burning rage and ice-cold fear, and his hands clenched as though the _Eglandur_ truly _was_ a maiden whom he longed to gather into his protective embrace. Or at the very least, to crack his fist across the jaws of those who sought to sully her.

"The men won’t give her up without a fight," Hathol promised him.

kyranae nodded. "Aye. But fighting will not be enough."

That bald statement made Hathol frown at him. "Just what're you plotting?"

Kyranae grinned. His first mate knew him very well. "Take some men an’ get down t' the holds before they’re stove in an’ rig up as many kegs of Umbardacil’s fire as ye can carry. We’re gonna take the fight t’ the dromon - let _her_ decks host the battle, this time. With luck we can keep her men from gainin’ any ground on the _Eglandur_ before yer through.”

Hathol just blinked at him. “You’re insane,” he said, baldly.

Which wasn’t untrue, Kyranae reflected, but that hardly mattered for the plan. If it worked, the kegs would explode and rip a gaping hole in the dromon’s hull, sinking her much faster than she would have otherwise and hopefully killing a great many of her men before they had the chance to make it across to the _Eglandur_. Unorthodox and down right dangerous, sure, but insane? 

Only if it didn’t work. And Kyranae knew that it would.

“Just get those kegs over t’ the dromon an' rig ‘em t' blow - a quick fuse’d be best, just mind ye don’t get caught in the blast." He flashed his first mate a grin, but there was little warmth in it. 

Hathol shook his head, muttered something likely highly uncomplimentary about his captain’s parentage, but ultimately he answered: “aye.” 

"Set to it," Kyranae ordered. "An’ tell Îbal t' gather the men."

The first mate nodded and set to his task, disappearing down the companionway and below decks, and Kyranae knew that his plan would come to spectacular fruition. 

A moment later and the crew filed in, curious and perhaps a bit impatient to see why their captain had pulled them from their tasks. Kyranae’s waited until they were all within earshot, but by then the dromon was almost upon them; his explanations would have to be succinct.

"Fall in, lads!" he yelled to them, and the men congealed into a throng around the mainmast. "I want swords ready," he ordered, "as we’re t’ be boarding them as soon’s may be. Their ship an’ ours are gonna fuse together some after the impact, an’ I want us t’ be the first t’ cross that devil’s gangway so’s we can guard against them doin’ the same to us - clear? Now, they might have archers on deck - unlikely - but mind ye duck if an’ when ye hear a whistling in yer ears!" That earned a chorus of uneasy laughter - which it was rather meant to, and Kyranae allowed himself a tolerant smile before he continued. "Right now yer first mate is rigging up a surprise for our uninvited guests, and soon’s it’s ready we’ve got t’ get our backsides back t’ the _Eglandur_. Gods willing I’ll shout the order myself but just t’ be certain, make sure ye scurry back to our ship as soon’s the word’s given no matter who gives it. Mark my words: any man what’s left behind's gonna very sorely regret it!" 

Nods and mutterings and a chorus of ‘ayes’ and Kyranae knew his men understood. Satisfied, he spared a moment to scrutinize his crew. Most of them he knew, though there were a few - those who followed him from port, apparently - whose names he did not know. Time willing, he should like to learn them. But business always before - well. The more amicable side of business, really.

"Now, some fools would tell ye not t’ be afraid," he said, as the dromon continued to bear down upon them like some specter from their nightmares. "Well bollocks t' them! I _want_ ye all afraid - for ye t' take what fear aught tries t’ choke ye an’ gnash it hard between yer teeth an’ swallow all its bitter juices! Let it feed ye, lads. Let it hammer all yer hearts an’ make yer sword arms swift an’ strong. There ain’t nothing what makes a man achieve the impossible like the threat of certain death, an’ death certainly don’t threaten any more insistently than She does tonight. So Lady Death thinks her wiles have us all ensnared? Well _I_ say she’s been a right bitch an’ its time we put her in her place!"

His speechifying had the desired effect, and the men cheered and waved their swords in exaltation. Kyranae stepped back and let their excitement wash over him, hoping that it could warm the cold places in his heart and untie some of the knots in the pit of his stomach. Yet one of those knots had a specific name, and he sought the young man out.

"Saeros!" he barked and, startled, the lad stepped forward. "I want ye with Îbal guarding the helm." 

While the second mate nodded, not as surprised to learn that he would remain as he was at the revelation that he would have company, Saeros merely gaped at him. The lad made as if to say something but then seemingly thought better of it, and his jaw flapped uselessly for the aborted effort. Kyranae half wondered if he'd actually been on the verge of protesting his captain's orders - and a shocking first it would've been, too, if he'd found the guts to follow through.

In a way, Kyranae almost caught himself regretting that the lad hadn't done, not that it'd have mattered. If his guess was right and Lorgan’s death had caused him to momentarily forget his reluctance to kill his former countrymen, well it still didn't change the fact that a lack of practical application in his sword-work had left Saeros uniquely unprepared for the coming fight. Kyranae would have left him behind even if these dromons belonged to the Black Tower instead of the White. And besides, questioning orders was not a habit he was like to indulge, no matter that it was more than time for Saeros' misfiring conscience to finally come around.

"Aye, cap'n," Saeros said, his accent thicker than usual. Îbal put a hand on his arm, grinned at his captain over-bright, and then led the lad away. Frog-marched him, more like. His own surprise was likely just as great as his captain's - and, it seemed, more practically dealt with.

All orders given, Kyranae turned back to face the dromon, and he wasn't at all surprised to see that their enemy was almost upon them. "Right, then," he said, his voice low and unheard over the raucous of his men still crying out their bloodlust, and the din hardly faltered when the looming shadow of that great warship was upon them at last.

Then finally, and with the thunderous boom of crashing timber, the dromon slammed into their starboard quarter, and the _Eglandur_ trembled and lurched as the planking of her hull groaned and buckled inward. Kyranae was knocked off his feet and stumbled into the capstan, but when he righted himself he drew his cutlass from its sheath and charged astern with the rest of his men.

Just as he predicted, the dromon hit them high. What remained of her reinforced bow protrusions splintered the main deck and gouged a jagged line through three decks below that, ripping through their holds. Wounded, the _Eglandur_ bled wine and cane sugar down through her bowels and into her bilges, but listing to larboard as she was the water merely lapped at her lower hull and didn’t enter. Kyranae and his men had to climb over their own splintered decking and the dromon’s fractured bow frame to reach their enemy, but because they were all assembled on deck, ready and waiting, they were easily able to board the dromon before a single enemy marine managed to find his way out from wherever it was they’d weathered the impact.

"Remember yer orders!" Kyranae shouted from the deck of the dromon, just ahead of the clash of swords.

Gondor didn’t dress Her marines in the full plate worn by the infantry. It was too heavy for one thing: even the strongest of swimmers would swiftly drown in plate mail. It was also a mite restrictive, which made it quite unsuitable for the close combat found aboard ship where speed and agility were key. Rather Gondor’s marines were clad much as Kyranae himself was, with a chain shirt over a leather vest and carrying short swords and bucklers instead of broadswords and full shields. However, their chain fell long over their thighs and billowed into skirting, and many also wore an open helm. It made killing blows annoyingly difficult to land at times, especially since there was little for a marine to do aboard a ship in peacetime except to practice his swordplay. Kyranae had learned early and well never to underestimate a marine across drawn steel.

That said, both the long sea-crossing and their prior fight had obviously cost them, victory though it had been. They were all of them tired, and many bore the marks of that last battle - and for his part, Kyranae's own sword-work had likely seen equal practice, if not more so, and most of that against Gondor's marine fleet. For every life his sword cut short, his punching dagger stole two more.

It was hardly his trademark for nothing.

Whether his men were charmed or just merely determined, they still somehow managed to hold their borrowed ground despite the disparity of odds. Not a single marine got past them to the _Eglandur_ , even as the fighting fanned out and covered most of the uninjured part of the dromon’s deck. Out of the corner of his eye Kyranae saw Hathol and two others make a mad dash through the fighting, and with three of his best sword-arms clearing their path. When he saw them disappear below decks he knew it was time to order everyone back to the _Eglandur_ , lest they all get taken in the blast.

"Fall back!" he shouted to his men. "Back to the _Eglandur_ now or else never again!"

As his men started their laborious retreat, Kyranae kept one eye on the hold - and felled marine who'd foolishly mistaken him for a man distracted. Then he killed another, and another, and then again as he made his own way back to the threshold between their ships. He stopped just at the lip of the breach on the dromon's side, but still Hathol's surprise party had not reemerged, and until they did he had no way of knowing whether or not they were successful. Kyranae cursed loudly and long, if also silently, while he bent his sword to cover the last of his crew's retreat, but then he could wait no longer. He scrambled nimbly across the gnarled mess of splinters that bridged the gap to his ship, and all the while his heart felt full of ballast stones for the thought that his plan could have failed, because if so then the battle would rest solely on strength of arms and they were still outnumbered.

Mercifully though it seemed the surprised marines hesitated before giving chase. All those of his boarding party who had survived - maybe three quarters of them, another mercy - were back aboard before the first marines even made it to the crossing, giving Kyranae precious seconds with which to order his crew to form ranks. "Keep them back, lads!" he barked, though really he needn’t have bothered. His men weren’t about to let an enemy board their ship unless it was over every last one of their dead bodies. They valiantly held the line while Kyranae fixed his gaze on the dromon, and on the hatch through which his first mate’s scupper party had disappeared, entirely too long ago.

Just as the last vestiges of his hope trickled down into the bitter tangle of despair the air grew thick with the headdy stench of saltpeter. Kyranae barely had time to register that fact - and more importantly, what that fact signified - before a deafening roar shook the dromon to her keel and caused her to bite down on her hold of the _Eglandur’s_ quarter. Men stumbled and fell - some of them overboard - as smoke and dark flame belched forth from amidships on the dromon’s starboard side. 

Hathol had done it! His crazy first mate had given them back their lives - had given Kyranae his freedom!

The dromon groaned and reeled in her death throes, done in by the unholy fire that no waters could tame - though right now a great deal of water was most surely trying. The dromon’s teeth were still buried in their hull, but now passage between the two ships was all but impossible and hesitation had left Gondor’s marines trapped on their dromon. Though the _Eglandur_ still strained against the dying ship’s hold her captain felt his failing hope ignite once more, fanned by the flames of Umbardacil’s fire.

" _Stars…_ "

Kyranae turned sharply to see Îbal standing beside him - when had he gotten there? - and the sudden interruption gave reality enough time to slither into the captain’s mind, and then it slid like poison down into the pit of his stomach as he acknowledged a truth he, up to that very moment, had been selfishly ignoring. Six good men had bought his freedom with their lives, his first mate among them. 

"Get the men t’ the oars," he ordered, his voice like chipped flint.

"But--"

"Now, man!" Kyranae grabbed a fistful of Îbal’s shirt in misplaced anger. "Before that carcass of a ship drags the _Eglandur_ down with her!" He shoved his boatswain back with such force that the larger man stumbled. 

Wide-eyed, Îbal managed a stunned: "aye captain!" before departing to give the order.

Even as the deck cleared and the men found their way below to the oars Kyranae stayed where he was. He braced himself against the rail when the _Eglandur_ began to move, groaning and shuddering as the splintered wreckage of her starboard quarter twisted and bucked before finally pulling away from the dromon’s ruined bow. Without his ship holding her in place the dromon fell away, and in the span of heartbeats she’d capsized completely, coming to rest heavily on her side on a bier of smoke and indomitable flame. Kyranae could hear the screams of her dying, drifting in on the wind as his ship backed further and further away, but he'd yet to see any of her men make it to the water. Or at least, none who looked likely to survive the experience - and that was well. So far tonight mercy had earned him naught but four dead crewmen. Still, he was grateful when wind shifted and he couldn't hear them anymore.

"Cap'n?"

This time it was Saeros who called for him, and when Kyranae turned he saw the lad standing several paces behind him, his expression a mockery of youth in melted wax. Kyranae favored him with a small, tired smile.

"Lorgan taught ye well, didn’t he." It wasn’t a question. "Taught ye everything he knew."

Hesitantly, Saeros nodded. "Aye." His voice was hoarse.

"Good. Then ye can manage in his stead."

If possible, Saeros paled even further. "But captain--"

Kyranae cut off that breathless rebuttal with a wave of his hand. "Gather everyone what can walk the wind an’ get ‘em up the ratlines." Here his expression softened, the brittle edge leaving his frown a bit. "Ye had a good teacher, son. This is yer chance t’ do him proud."

Still pale and shaking, Saeros finally managed to nod. "A-aye, captain."

Kyranae sent him off with a nod, and within minutes the yards were full of sailors tying off the topgallants. On the main deck Îbal was attempting to direct the men working to fly the jib sails, though it was easy to tell that he wasn’t warming to his new role as first mate. Meanwhile Kyranae held the _Eglandur’s_ helm and barked orders to the men hauling on the spanker.

"She’s almost ready," Kyranae said when he’d heard Îbal’s heavy feet ascending to the poop deck. Îbal startled slightly, though in hindsight he realized he should have known the captain would hear him. Îbal and stealth did not get along.

"Aye, captain," he acknowledged. His voice was sure but still the man hung back. Finally Kyranae turned, and watched as his new first mate swallowed his hesitancy with visible effort. Hathol’s shoes would be nigh impossible to fill, both for the _Eglandur_ and for her captain, and that fact was just as unfair as it was true. "But what of the breach?"

In response Kyranae fairly _growled_ , low in his throat, as he thought about it. An inarticulate expression of anger and pain - and guilt. "They hit us hard b'twix wind an’ water, but the ole girl should weather it well enough t’ get us out of here. We can make repairs once we’ve outrun Thorongil’s ambition, but we’ll have t’ careen her an’ sooner rather than later."

Îbal nodded, his own anger twisting his features into an ugly snarl. "He’s won himself a great victory today, the bastard." And then he spat on the deck for good measure.

Kyranae barked an ironic laugh. " _Gondor_ claims the victory. Her Captain of Ships gets whatever leftover fame he can lick from Denethor’s boots." 

"Yet it'll be Thorongil’s name they curse in Umbar, an' for years unending."

"That's the autocracy for ye," Kyranae said, shrugging. "Ye got soldiers aplenty t' take the blame but Gods forbid ye ever let 'em enjoy any credit."

"Oh, I'll credit Thorongil, all right," Îbal said, bloodthirsty. "Straight into an early grave. And you would, too - and don't say aught."

"Is that so?"

"Aye. I know you, captain. Right now you're wondering if t'would be better to send that bastard back to the Steward in pieces, or to hang him high off Tolfalan cay and let the seagulls have him."

Well. Kyranae had to concede that his thoughts might have strayed along such lines - if he hadn't been so fully occupied with keeping him and his alive. Though if he ever went looking to lay blame, there'd be no question he'd choose Imaran's head for it. Gondor's periodic rousting of Umbar was just a fact of life, really; but Gondor coming in force to wipe them wholesale from map? _That_ was because their damned fool Lord went sticking his greed in places it had no business going. If what he felt right now for Thorongil was the kind of murderous hate that Îbal thought, then there wasn't a word in any of the southern tongues for what he felt for Imaran. But Imaran was more than likely dead already, and if not then Gondor would certainly see to it soon. And Thorongil was the kind of foe who would never, ever be in reach. 

And neither of them deserved his consideration, just now. 

Thoughts of blood and vengeance had no place inside a head bent fully to the task of saving life and limb, and he would not betray his crew by giving their continued survival any less than his full attention. Not that Îbal would understand that. In fact, he'd count it quite the opposite: that foregoing revenge - even in fantasy - would be a betrayal of those who had died. So instead Kyranae summoned a feral grin, looked his new first in the eye, and told a perfect truth. "Îbal? If I'd my way, ev'ry last politician in Gondor would be dead by dawn."

Îbal answered that grin with one of his own, wolfish and bloodthirsty and not just a little bit mad. But then suddenly he faltered, considering. "Not her soldiers?"

At that Kyranae mustered a half shrug. "Without Gondor's soldiers this crew'd be shrunk by more than half." So too would all of Umbar, really.

Just then Saeros came pounding up to the quarterdeck, his face still flushed from the bite of the wind up in the rigging. “Captain! She’s ready to fly!" Of course, he'd no context for the arched eyebrow that his captain sent the new first mate, nor for the man's own answering shrug at the sight of it.

Kyranae looked up to see the topgallants were sheeted home, and on further inspection he saw that her jibs were set, her spanker neat and trim. His smile could have shamed the sun. "Gather the men!" he ordered his new chief topman, and Saeros scurried away.

Once again his crew found themselves gathered around the mainmast, though there were fewer now than there were the time before. It was hard not to count heads, to pick out faces in the crowd and put names to all the negative spaces. _Very_ hard, so instead Kyranae stood gazing out at the harbor mouth, his eyes fixed on the course ahead, until everyone was set and waiting. 

“All right, men - listen up. We’ve done a handsome job of it so far, but if we don’t make it past the breakwater we’re shark bait. Problem is, the _Thalion_ an’ the _Falkáno_ currently control the breakwater." Murmurs of dissention greeted that proclamation. Kyranae gave them a moment to properly vent their incredulity before quieting them with the wave of a hand. "Good news is they’re both still occupied with pounding the watchtowers t’ dust - they’re blockading us, aye, but those towers are their real prizes. They may take potshots at us with that nasty siege gear they’re packing but they’re not likely t’ give chase. Still, I’m going t’ need every last one of you what’s not hauling canvas down on the oars. We’ve gotta thread a needle in the dark, lads, an’ with all possible speed."

With that he dismissed them, and the men ran to their stations. Then he went back to the helm, and he finally he removed the punching dagger from his right fist. His fingers were stiff and achy but they could still grip the _Eglandur’s_ wheel well enough, and that was all he needed.

Ever so slowly the oarsmen brought them about while Kyranae saw to their course and Îbal and Saeros directed the motion of the sails. As the canvas lifted and filled the _Eglandur_ beat her way forward, and Kyranae’s heart sang its joy in harmony with the music of her rigging each time his Dark Lady came through the eye of the wind. Yet as the crumbling watchtowers loomed larger in his vision so too did Gondor’s man-o-wars. Three masts they carried, and an arsenal of heavy mangonel overhanging their rails. Kyranae’s grip tightened protectively on the _Eglandur’s_ wheel. 

"Îbal!" he shouted, and within moments the man appeared. "Get yerself below an’ find whoever’s become my coxswain. We’ll need t’ rack all oars when we reach the breakwater an’ glide our way through that narrow strait between those ships with sails alone. Give the order when ye judge us close enough."

"But captain--" 

The protest was cut off by glare hot enough it could've ignited wet canvas. Kyranae didn’t want to hear it. He knew as well as Îbal did that when those warships took their ‘potshots,’ either with arrows or artillery, odds were they’d aim for whoever held the helm. But Îbal was first mate now: responsibility for this ship and her crew fell to him if anything happened to her captain. And her captain knew it, too, which was why he’d ordered the man below. Besides which, this was a captain’s duty, and he’d suffer no man to take it from him.

Îbal lingered a bit longer than perhaps he should have, but with a grudging "aye," he finally he took his leave. 

Kyranae watched him go, and gave into an exhausted sigh once the man was fully gone and he was alone on the deck once more. Then he looked up at the men tending his sails. Saeros stood out among them, both for his youth and for the authority he was now learning to wield. As he called out their courses Kyranae couldn't help but wonder if the lad would take to leadership as easily as he’d taken to the wind, but he reasoned he would. Saeros had taken to _everything_ easily, except killing, though Kyranae still wondered if tonight had changed all that. 

Well. Better the lad get there on his own than for Kyranae to have forced the issue. Still, they’d be due for another talk on it, later. If they both somehow managed to survive the night. 

Kyranae pulled his mind away from the vagaries of his crew only with effort, and returned the whole of his attention to the harbor mouth. By now he could see men on the warships’ decks, see them loading and reloading the mangonels, each averaging three shots per minute. By now the watchtowers had long since stopped retaliating, but Gondor would not relent until She ground her enemies into so much dust under her feet.

Another course change was coming up; the final tack before the breakwater. They were almost free! 

And then finally, the moment of truth. His men completed the final tack just as the _Eglandur_ crossed the bar. He felt rather than saw her oars pull back as his lovely Dark Lady glided smoothly between the warships, a stone’s throw away from either hull. Kyranae inhaled sharply and held his breath as they sailed on through, gripping the wheel with all his might as though the strength of his will alone would be enough to protect her from Gondor’s retaliation. 

The ghost of a breeze drifted across his face, pulling at the strands of his hair that fell short of the queue, and he tipped his face to the heavens. The stars that had ever been his companions, providing comfort and guidance when all else had failed him, shone more brightly than ever before. _Please_ , he prayed, to the gods of wind and waves. _Please let this work. Please let us through._

Then he pulled the wheel down hard, crying: “helm’s a-lee!” 

From his knees he looked out at the horizon, out to where that brilliant sky bled down into the water and turned his beloved sea into a rolling field of silver glass, and even as his ship hauled so close to the wind they were flirting with irons his eyes never strayed - he had good men on his sails; they knew what to do - until at last the deafening thunder of Gondor’s artillery filled his ears--

And then the darkness claimed him.

Kyranae’s prediction had won out. Gondor had taken potshots at them - mostly with arrows, though one ship managed to rake her stern with mangonel - but the _Eglandur_ sailed right on passed, her full spread of canvas hauled close to starboard as she pulled out of Gondor’s reach and left them once more in her wake. 

" _Captain!_ "

It was Saeros who reached him first. Kyranae was sitting with his back propped against wheel, his long legs stretching out into the heart of the rubble that Gondor had rained down upon the helm.

"Captain!"

The poor lad probably raked his hands bloody shoving those stones aside, but soon enough he’d cleared a path to his captain. He dropped to his knees on Kyranae’s port side and took him by the shoulder. Saeros shook him slightly, and Kyranae heard his name called again in the lilting burr of Belfalas. 

_So very young_ , Kyranae thought, as his weary eyes finally drifted open. Fully aware that he must look a wretched sight, he managed a crooked if bloodstained grin for his youngest crewman. Though silently he prayed again - and twice in one night; surely that was a first for him. _Thank you_ , he offered this time, and to whichever gods were listening. 

Saeros though nearly crumpled with relief. "Gods of my ancestors,” he swore, “I half thought you were dead!" His hand squeezed Kyranae’s shoulder again, gently this time; and then, for some reason, he left it there.

Though the effort pained him, Kyranae reached out and rested his own bloodied hand in the crook of Saeros’s arm. The fingers hung all acockbill, he noticed absently. “Good lad,” he croaked. His voice sounded strange in his own ears. Some water would be nice; or rum. Just a little touch of the grog was all he needed, surely. 

"We’ll get you below," Saeros was saying. "Get you fixed up in no time - just like the _Eglandur!_ You’ll both be fine, captain, you’ll see! Just fine."

 _So very young_ , he thought again, when the poor lad’s voice broke on that last ‘fine,’ but still he nodded anyway. Sort of. His head felt heavy, and when he looked up again his eyes were drawn past Saeros, up towards the wheeling stars. He felt better for the sight. Already the pain was lessening.

Then Saeros started shouting, but Kyranae couldn’t catch the words. Like his Dark Lady they flew away on the wind. That didn’t trouble him, though. _So very good_ , he thought suddenly, and with starlight's brutal clarity, _to not be here alone_.

And then he found his freedom.

- _fin_ -

 

_I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,_  
 _And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,_  
 _And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,_  
 _And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking._

_I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide_  
 _Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;_  
 _And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,_  
 _And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying._

_I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,_  
 _To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;_  
 _And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover_  
 _And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over._

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Poetry credits: "Sea Fever" by John Masefield (1878 – 1967), first published in his anthology _Salt-Water Ballads_. © 1902 Grant Richards, London  
>  2\. The "Mariner" Kyranae profanes by is indeed Eärendil the Mariner.  
> 3\. Black Tower: Barad-dûr  
> 4\. White Tower: the Citadel of Minas Tirith  
> 5\. Erchamion was a name of Beren, meaning ‘one-handed.’  
> 6\. Umbardacil was was a title for King Telumehtar of Gondor who achieved a great victory over Umbar, killing the last the descendants of Castamir the Usurper.  
> 7\. ‘Umbardacil's fire’ is how the author appropriating ‘Greek Fire’ for a fantasy setting.


End file.
